Mosaic

by Gayle Lynds

  Maya Stern had come to him soon after to thank him. She told him she was endlessly grateful for his courageous and unpopular vote. Then she'd told him she was an assassin for the CIA and offered her private services for anything he might want done. He could always count on her loyalty. He'd instantly seen the advantage of such skills in the world of business and politics. Since then, whenever he'd needed her she'd performed without question.

  "I think it'd be wise," Vince said soberly.

  "She could've given the packet to you. Why does she want to see me?"

  "You know how she feels about you. It's almost love, Dad, and my guess is you keep going up in her estimation. You awed her when you told her you had ways of handling the investigation in London."

  Creighton cast him a sideways look, his hawklike profile more predatory than usual. "Dealing with her is like carrying a loaded automatic with a broken safety."

  "But she's your automatic. You get to aim her. She worships you."

  Creighton grimaced. "I think the only person she ever cared about other than herself was that crazy brother of hers."

  Vince nodded. "It's just as well she's here. I'll give her the new assignment."

  Creighton sighed. "Let's get it over with."

  He had to face it. He needed Stern. Especially now.

  After the Iron Curtain dissolved and the American public demanded cutbacks in defense and intelligence, the Company adjusted and began the slow process of change. Gone were the go-go days of the 1980s when DCI Bill Casey could create wars and win approval for "victories" in Nicaragua and Grenada. New leadership took over the Company, and many of the old ways were swept out Langley's door. So were quite a few longtime spies and team leaders. Some left willingly. They saw the future and knew the Company would never be the same.

  Maya Stern had recognized it, too. Known for her "cleanup" abilities, she was thirty-five years old. She'd been with the Company through most of the upheaval. With the help of plastic surgery, steroids, and resistance training, she could easily match anyone fifteen years younger both in beauty and strength. But the Company no longer cared. The assassination program, in which she'd served, had officially ended in the 1970s and then had continued clandestinely through the 1980s. In the early 1990s the Company dropped it, and it was gone forever. . . or so her boss told her.

  She knew it was a lie, but he assigned her to regular field intelligence. Although she was good at the work, it left her hollow and edgy. She had no idea why she missed the wet jobs, but after a while she accepted they were as much a part of her as her DNA. Trained to blend in with the woodwork, she'd quietly resigned four years ago, giving no hint of her dissatisfaction.

  While she'd been with the Company, she'd secretly done the occasional off-hours job for Creighton, and through him for his family. Now she offered her services full-time. Creighton put her on retainer. It was the best way to control her. She gave no hint she'd ever use the past for blackmail. But he was a prudent man; he took no unnecessary risks. So he paid her, and she felt as if she were a trusted—although clandestine—member of his team.

  Today she arrived at Arbor Knoll driving a florist's truck stuffed with flowers for the Redmond family. All were from individuals who did not exist. Dressed in a cap pulled low over her face and padded white coveralls, she got out of the truck at the service kiosk next to the road. The Secret Service searched the truck. They examined everything. They used a handheld scanner to check the stamped mail sitting on the passenger seat. They even opened her beef sandwich, which was wrapped in deli paper and lying on top of the mail. And then they told her she could drive on up.

  She followed the winding brick road that led to the back of the mansion. She'd been here several times and knew the layout. Her heart speeded as soon as she saw Creighton Redmond approaching from between the small guest cottage and the main house. He was slender and elegant in his dark, side-vented suit, a man of power and assurance. A man to be respected. His jacket was unbuttoned. His son walked behind, dressed in slacks, heavy shirt, and boots. He was with the Company, far less important.

  Although her lips were suddenly dry, she resisted the urge to wet them. Some things could never be forgiven; others could never be repaid. In her eyes, Creighton Redmond was as close to a god as her lack of religion would allow.

  She jumped out of the truck, opened the side panel, and set a floral display on the drive. As Creighton drew closer, she turned back into the truck and worked to ready two more arrangements. At last he was beside her. One of the ever-present Secret Service agents appeared from nowhere, but Creighton waved him back.

  "More flowers?" he said genially.

  He was so close Maya could see the smoothness of his shave. "Yes, sir." She made her voice husky, masculine. "Sorry about the family's loss, sir." That was in case the retreating agent could still hear.

  From the truck she removed another arrangement and held it up. Using the display and her body to block what she was doing, she pulled out the packet she'd taken from Marguerite Austrian. Now it was in a fat white envelope addressed to Canton, Ohio. When the Secret Service had used their scanner on it, all they'd seen inside was a sheaf of folded paper.

  With a pleasant smile, Creighton glanced around the empty courtyard with its low brick walls and dark green junipers. His family and campaign team were inside, eating lunch, keeping the household staff busy. The Secret Service was watching for danger more than they were watching him.

  He leaned over to admire the flowers, his jacket fell open, and he slipped the packet inside. "Very nice," he said loudly. He stood up, buttoned the jacket, and lowered his voice. "You caused one hell of a problem by killing Marguerite."

  She repeated what she'd told him earlier. "She saw my face. She'd have known me again."

  "We would've sent you away, given you whatever you needed to protect you. You could've retired."

  "I need to work. You couldn't give me that." Stern had the clear gaze of the unencumbered. She'd gone through life without guilt, and for her, someone else's misery was only an abstract idea. Her wants dictated her actions, and the paramount emotion she felt when she saw pain was jubilation. The violent death of Marguerite Austrian still shimmered in front of her eyes, almost orgasmic.

  Creighton understood her disdain. Her need for her work was one of the reasons she was so useful. Just a few days ago she'd pulled off the delicate job of extracting and changing police records in Monaco. She'd studied the police inspector and read his sexual weaknesses. Then she'd redesigned herself to fulfill his fantasies. Within three weeks she'd gotten what they'd needed and left the inspector unable to do anything about it. To expose her was to expose himself, ruin his professional reputation, and lose his job. If he kept quiet, he kept everything, including his freedom to prowl the bars for more sexual prey.

  Creighton said, "I have another assignment for you. Be back here at two-forty-five."

  Now it was Vince's turn. "I've made the arrangements—" He told her what they wanted her to do. It was a bold plan, and only Stern—with her background of assumed roles and disguises and her personal knowledge of Julia—could pull it off.

  Beneath the white cap that shaded her face, Stern had a glint in her eyes. A line of her thick, black hair showed above her ears. "Leave the name at the service entrance. Where do I pick up the IDs?"

  As Vince answered, Creighton watched her, impatient for her to get to why she'd insisted on seeing him. Despite his need for her and her obvious deference, she made him uneasy. He was annoyed at his unease.

  As soon as Vince finished, he asked, "Is there anything else?"

  It was her moment. She dipped her head. Sudden awkwardness afflicted her. "I just wanted to congratulate you." She ran a finger across her forehead below the brim of her cap, wiping away sweat. "I registered to vote when you were nominated. I'll vote for you on Tuesday."

  She looked up, and Creighton saw an animal-like devotion in her black eyes. They were dark ovals, very large, and they exuded an almost dew
y naïveté. She existed for herself alone. She had no interest in anyone else. He hadn't paid her to vote. He hadn't even asked for her vote. He hadn't bothered, because he'd guessed registering and voting were acts foreign to her. But somehow the momentousness of his nomination for president had pierced her self-interest. She'd considered what to do to signify her devotion, had probably spent days looking for just the right gesture, and finally had decided upon this offering to prove beyond any doubt her fealty.

  "I'm grateful." His voice was sincere, his words measured. Then he said what he knew she wanted to hear: "It will help. But more than that, your vote touches me."

  She smiled and backed up. The exchange was just right. She knew that he understood and approved. She disappeared into the truck to continue her duties. It seemed to Creighton as if violent darkness followed her.

  For the next few hours, talk and laughter filled the flower-bedecked living room, and Julia smiled at the camaraderie. Creighton had five children aged twelve to thirty-seven; David had three in their twenties and thirties; and Brice had four—two in their twenties and two teenagers who lived with his divorced wife. So far, the cousins had produced twenty-two grandchildren for the sons of Lyle Redmond, and all were here.

  Julia accepted a sandwich from the luncheon table, because her brain told her she must eat, and a sandwich was easier than food that had to be cut into bite-sized pieces by someone else. The scent of lilies struck her as she left the table. Everywhere she moved, she could smell funeral flowers.

  She chatted with her cousins about weddings, showers, and babies. They talked about careers, houses they were buying, the family compound in Palm Beach, the Redmond ranch in Montana, trips to Austria for skiing and to the Antilles, Paris, and Majorca to get away from it all. They discussed the art they were buying, but more often their motivation sounded less like a passion for beauty than a desire for a sound investment. They sometimes mentioned old Lyle Redmond and that he was crazier than ever.

  Finally at three-thirty the family poured out into the courtyard, where a limo waited. The chauffeur stood by the back door. The day's fragile warmth was already escaping the land, and the sun hung weak and low in the west. Winter's short days had arrived.

  Julia was bundled in a long cashmere coat, and she could hear someone loading suitcases into the trunk. For a moment she wondered what color her coat was. Then she recalled buying it with her mother at Saks Fifth Avenue. The seventh floor. The scents and rustle of new fabrics. She remembered her mother laughing and drinking Snapple iced tea with Barry Rosenberg as she tried on coats. The laughter sang in the air.

  Abruptly she was overwhelmed by grief. In graphic flashes she saw her mother's dying face. . . heard the sound of the killer's footfalls running off into the night. . . smelled the stench of hot blood. Guilt for her blindness raged through her.

  She forced herself back to the present and allowed Creighton to lead her toward the limo. When they stopped, he said, "This is Norma Kinsley, Julia. Brice called the village, and the service sent her over. She's your new companion. She'll cook and write letters and help you choose your clothes. I think you'll be happy with her. Her suitcase is in the trunk. She'll stay with you as long as you like."

  Julia could smell perfume. "Hello, Norma. What's that scent you're wearing? It's lovely."

  "It's Magie Noire." The woman had a low, pleasant voice. "I'm delighted to be your companion, Ms. Austrian."

  Julia filed the perfume's name in her memory. "Please call me Julia."

  "Thank you. Are you ready to go, Julia?" Norma took Julia's hand.

  Julia smiled. "I'm only blind. You don't have to help me quite that much. Here, let me show you." She reached up the woman's coat arm and gripped the arm just above the elbow. She was astounded by the thick, hard muscle. Norma obviously worked out religiously. "You walk ahead, and I'll follow. When you get to the car door, put my hand on top of it. That way I can quickly find the opening and figure out its size and where the seat is. Then I'll get in by myself."

  "I understand." Norma led her to the car and carefully moved Julia's hand to the top of the open door.

  In her bleak darkness, Julia climbed into the backseat. "Sit with me, will you?" The woman made her think of a cat—poised and moving with smooth rhythm, those hard muscles rippling. "We're going to be spending a lot of time together, so we might as well get to know one another. Were you an athlete?"

  "Of many kinds, yes."

  Julia had to decide whether she could work with this stranger. She heard her go around to the other side and climb in. The chauffeur turned on the motor, and as the family hurried back into the warm mansion, the big limo purred down the hill.

  Julia inhaled the woman's perfume. It was appealing. "Tell me what you look like so I can picture you."

  "I don't know how—"

  Julia smiled. It was difficult for some people to describe themselves. "I'll help. I know you're a little taller than I am. About five-foot-nine, I'd say, judging from when we were standing next to each other outside. You're athletic and slim, and you're probably attractive. Plain women seldom wear perfumes so exotic. Do you have a round face, oval, heart-shaped? What color are your eyes and hair?"

  Maya Stern laughed lightly. She looked at the chauffeur, noted the sliding window closed between back and front. He wouldn't hear her describe the fictional "Norma" as looking nothing like her. "You're right about my height. I have light brown hair and blue eyes. My face is round. I used to be a dancer and heptathlete, and I'm still an exercise fanatic. I wear bright red nail polish. Does that help?"

  Julia liked the sound of the nail polish. It showed flair. "Tell me about the other jobs you've had."

  As she talked, Maya Stern glanced again at the chauffeur. If he'd heard her lie about the color of her hair, the shape of her face, and that she wore any nail polish at all, he'd given no indication. She couldn't tell Julia what she really looked like because Julia might recognize the description as that of her mother's killer. As the limo ate up the miles across Long Island, she created a career history to entertain her new assignment. That wasn't difficult—she'd had more cover identities in her professional life than most actors had roles, and she'd lived each fully, because to do less was to court death.

  When the limo left the Queens-Midtown Tunnel and entered the city, Maya Stern gave a cool smile. Satisfied the assignment was going well, she ran her fingers through her short black hair. She studied the sightless woman, thinking about her orders and feeling regret. She'd never killed a blind person. She wondered whether the experience was any different. But as long as Julia Austrian remained sightless, she'd live.

  15

  10:00 AM, SATURDAY

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  Sam Keeline was in a turmoil of frustration. He had to find the Amber Room. He and Pink Pinkerton were downstairs in the basement gym of the old wing of Company headquarters. In their white robes and black belts, they moved rhythmically through the basic techniques of karate—punching, striking, kicking, and blocking.

  Sam was trying to block out both his excitement and disappointment about the Amber Room. He imagined enemies coming from eight directions and kicked hard, leaped, and—maintaining perfect balance—punched a lacerating roundhouse back-fist strike at his invisible opponent.

  In his mind, Sam saw his enemy slam back and fall, writhe, and beg for mercy—

  "Sam! Who're you trying to kill?" Finished with the kata's ritual exercises, Pink gave a formal bow to the universe.

  They were alone. If it had been a weekday, they'd have been competing for space with the usual Tae Kwon Do crowd that appeared during breaks. Sam ended his kata with a front stance. He bowed, too, and the basement's overhead pipes gurgled and snapped.

  Listening, Sam grumbled, "This is like working out in a stomach afflicted by a hiatal hernia." The pipes rattled again, and flakes of beige paint rained down.

  Pink glanced at his friend, who'd never been the most even-keeled, easygoing guy around. Only intelligence
work seemed to hold his interest—and women, plural. Give Sam a big pile of reports to synthesize and analyze, and he was in Shangri-la. But not today. The fact that Sam had taken time off from whatever new girlfriend he had to join Pink for a beer last night, had brought up again his longtime love affair with the Amber Room, and then had agreed to kata this morning told Pink something significant was going on inside Sam Keeline's strange mind.

  Sam was usually such a closemouthed bastard. But then, so was Pink.

  "No luck this morning either?" Pink asked as they headed into the showers.

  "Nada. All I found out was Ambassador Daniel Austrian died of a heart attack and old age, and his only son, Jonathan Austrian, was an investor who died in an automobile wreck. Dead men, dead ends. I checked their alma maters and all the universities in New York and DC. Took me hours, but none has either one's papers."

  "What about their widows? What about children?"

  "Daniel's widow died a long time ago, and Jonathan's is off somewhere on a concert tour with their daughter, a pianist. Only child. Julia Austrian. Heard of her?"

  They stripped and turned on the showers.

  Pink didn't have to think long. "Nope. Concert pianists aren't my bag. All that old-fashioned classical stuff. Bores my ears. No way."

  Sam's sandy hair plastered his head, and his skin gleamed from the workout. He was silent, giving every indication of thinking. Or of avoiding Pink's next question.

  Pink said, "You know her, don't you? This Julia Austrian—"

  "Heard her play a couple of times," Sam admitted. He also had all her CD recordings. "She's pretty good. Actually, very good. She plays with a lot of power and integrity. Hard to believe she's the granddaughter of a real-estate mogul. You'd think she would've ended up in business. Or settled in as a rich socialite."

  "You've made a study of this woman?"

  "Not at all. But her music does get under your skin."